Poisoned Soil: A Supernatural Thriller (36 page)

Then, Ozzie walked into the wilderness with his mother.

Blake collapsed onto the ground. His hands shook violently but still clutched the board as he watched the pair lumber side by side into the woods. He looked at his hands, his knuckles white from gripping the board with all his might, and he finally loosened his grip. He looked back at the pigs, thinking that these two captured pigs had found what he was now in want of. Freedom. Refuge. Just to live simply and to be left alone. Blake felt that he was the one now imprisoned, only he had built the walls and incarcerated himself with his greed.

He remembered that there was a third, a red-haired Tamworth breed of pig out there somewhere, one of only three that he had been raising before he ever started messing with these wild pigs. Back when he raised only a few pigs for Angelica and himself. She, too, had escaped and was out there somewhere. They had each found a way to win their freedom.

Blake prayed that he could win his as he looked down at the blood soaking through his jeans.

Chapter 30

Clint pulled into The Federal’s parking lot and parked next to the entrance. Even at 3:45 p.m. he would have expected to see many more cars on a typical Wednesday. He walked inside and continued past the vacant hostess station, pushing through the double stainless doors that led to the kitchen the way John Wayne might have entered a saloon in a Western movie. The kitchen was quiet other than the clanking of utensils by staff preparing dishes for the evening. The voices of those who manipulated the utensils remained hushed as melancholy eyes fixed on their tasks.

“Where can I find Nick Vegas?” Clint asked the group. A chef with a white hat closed an oven door after checking on legs of lamb that were roasting. The smell of the garlic, rosemary, and anchovies that he had masterfully studded into the lamb lingered through the air in search of praise, but finding none. The chef looked at Clint and held his arm to his left, pointing in the direction of Nick’s office to the rear of the kitchen. Clint walked through the thirty-foot long kitchen between a line of cooks and preppers. He wasn’t here to do an inspection. That wasn’t his job. But he noted with interest the meticulousness of each task, the cleanliness of the work surfaces, and the tile floor. He noted the digital temperature readings of the coolers, etched in red at 38 degrees, and the readings of the sub-zero freezers. It wasn’t the environment of a callous operator, of a body of people who didn’t care about food or food safety. It had the appearance that Clint wanted to see in all restaurants, and it looked like the last place he would expect to find a lax approach to food safety.

He walked through the open door to the office in the rear. It was a small, rectangular room at the rear of the kitchen that may have been originally designed for storage. As he stuck his head through the door and looked to the right, Clint saw Nick Vegas seated at a desk on the far end. Clint easily recognized Nick from magazine and television images he had seen. Neat, thick black hair that was slicked back and perfectly combed framed a clean-shaven face that was tanned a luxurious shade of mocha.

“Nick Vegas?”

Nick looked up from his computer screen and turned his head left. The visitor looked vaguely familiar, but Nick couldn’t identify him. Still, Clint’s off-the-shelf two-piece suit and laminated FSIS name badge on his left lapel announced official business. Nick knew an official visit would come sooner or later. He was glad that it had come so quickly.

“Yes,” Nick said with a placid smile.

“Mr. Vegas, I’m Clint Justice, Senior Compliance Investigator with the Food Safety and Inspection Service.”

“Ah,” Nick began. “I knew I had seen you somewhere. CNN, right? You were on that segment about food safety.”

“Yes, last month,” Clint said. “And I heard you as well on Fox News discussing your new club, 50-Forks.” Nick smiled with the enthusiasm a mourner has when acknowledging a stranger’s condolences. He reflected on the irony of the situation. Both men squaring off on two sides of the law, each having discussed similar issues on cutthroat, competing news channels.

“Call me Nick. How can I help you?”

“I’m here about the foodborne illnesses that resulted from tainted meat that was served by your chefs—”

“Tainted meat?” Nick interrupted. “How do you know that meat was tainted?” Nick crossed his arms and remained standing.

“We removed samples from each dinner location. I suspect you know this since your chefs allowed us access to the meat,” Clint said.

Nick didn’t respond. Clint continued. “The test results confirmed anthrax, both in the cured ham and in the cooked pork that you served here in Athens. Anthrax was in the white mold of the ham, which very likely contributed to the outbreak of inhalation anthrax.” Nick sat down, but said nothing. He waved his hand to an empty chair, inviting Clint to sit if he would like. Clint remained standing and looked down at Nick.

“I need to know precisely where you got both the ham and the fresh pork,” Clint said. “Purchase orders, receipts, vendor information, everything you have.”

Nick looked up at Clint and delivered his response carefully. “Clint, those illnesses and deaths I’ve read about are tragic. But
if
they are a result of a foodborne illness, and I’m not saying they are, by your own admission those dinners were private events. They have nothing to do with The Federal or any of my restaurants.” Nick had rehearsed his response many times in the past twenty-fours hours both to himself and on the phone with his attorney who assured him this demand would be forthcoming.

Clint took the seat. He leaned forward and rested his left arm on Nick’s desk. “This issue is very simple, Nick. I’m here representing FSIS and I need the source of that meat. Unless you have something to hide then
they
are the ones responsible for the anthrax, since anthrax comes from the soil. Now, if you would prefer to not cooperate we will be forced to assume there may have been intended wrongdoing. In that case we’ll have the FBI here tomorrow and at each of your locations.”

Nick heard what he wanted to hear, that he wasn’t the focus of the investigation. He pulled open a file drawer and retrieved Blake’s file, writing down Blake’s address and phone number on his personalized stationary. “Here,” Nick said, handing the note to Clint. “This is the man you want to speak to.”

***

Blake leaned with his back against a pine tree near the entrance to his driveway, his head cocked up and pressed against the bark. His eyes traced the long, straight pine that appeared to pierce the sky as if it were an arrow. Catching his breath, he looked once more at his phone that had registered no service for the past three hours. He was left with no choice but to hobble on his own down the mountain, leaving a trickled path of blood in the woods alongside the road. Twice he had heard a car coming down the road, and twice he had taken cover in thickets to avoid any encounters. To avoid answering helpful questions, such as “why’s your leg bleeding so badly?”

The phone finally registered a single bar next to the time, 6:21 p.m. One single reception bar. Too late to be of any help as he knew he could make it the last few hundred yards. A message flashed on the phone indicating that he had one new voice message. Blake pushed off the tree and grimaced as his right leg seared with pain. He limped along the driveway, unable to move any better on the groomed drive than he had been in the uneven terrain of the woods. He brought the phone to his ear and listened to the message from the 404 area code.

“Mr. Savage this is Clint Justice, Senior Compliance Investigator with the Food Safety and Inspection Service. Nick Vegas has given me your name, number and address as a supplier of meats to him. It’s about this matter that I must speak to you right away. Please call me back at the following number today or tonight.”

Blake stopped and stood in the driveway. He turned and looked behind him to see if anyone was coming, even though he had heard nothing. Another wave of terror washed over him. Momentarily paralyzed, he was afraid to move forward, afraid that vehicles were already at his home, waiting to incarcerate him. He put his left thumb in his mouth and chewed on the nail, unconscious of doing so. He glided his thumbnail back and forth between his upper and lower front teeth as if attempting to floss them as he stared into the gravel drive and played out the scenario. He hobbled slowly through the woods next to the house as he imagined a team of snipers on his own rooftop, armed with long-distance listening devices trained on his direction. In his imagination the sound of the smallest twig cracking sent a barrage of bullets flying into the woods.

Through the trees, he caught his first glimpse of the house, a twinkling reflection from the windshield of his F-150. He was relieved that
they
hadn’t come to repossess that, even though he had paid cash for it. Other than his truck, there were no other vehicles visible. He emerged at the edge of the woods and stood for a moment, looking closely around the house. There was no movement.

Blake walked to the kitchen door and opened it, praying silently that no one other than Angelica would be there. He opened the door and exhaled, momentarily releasing his tension and smiling at the woman who stood there. The woman who was the answer to his prayers.

“What happened?” Angelica asked. The girls were watching a movie that she had put in for them.

“Oh,” Blake began as he searched for words, “just hurt myself in the woods. But it’s all done. I’m done now. With everything.” He felt himself wanting to confess more, needing to blurt out years’ worth of secrets, of lies. Of deceit. Angelica took his arm and walked him to the bathroom. She helped him slide his pants off, supporting his beefy frame as he flinched with pain. Like any good nurse she showed little emotion when the two-inch gash was revealed just above Blake’s knee. Still, the location of the wound alarmed her. “Oh goodness!” she said. “You’re lucky this is a shallow wound. It just missed your femoral artery. And I mean
just
missed it!”

“Sit still. I’ll be right back.” Angelica walked through the sliding glass doors in the living room that led to the front yard. She snipped off several fresh yarrow leaves and went to the kitchen. She washed the leaves thoroughly in vinegar, rinsed them with water and returned to Blake. “Here,” she said. She pressed the leaves on the cut, grabbed the medical tape and bandages and secured the yarrow to the wound.

“What happened?”

“I—I was working in the woods and took a stick through my leg,” Blake said. Angelica looked up at him. Lying had become such a habit for Blake that he could no longer even recognize when he did it. He always told himself that he lied to Angelica about his activities for
her
protection.
Damn it! Is that what I’m doing now, protecting her? Just tell her truth, that a pig did it to you!

“Keep this on for an hour or two until we’re sure the bleeding has stopped,” she said. Angelica walked back to the kitchen and picked up the note from the sheriff and brought it to Blake. “Look,” she said. Blake jerked up at the sight of the sheriff’s signature and winced at the pain. “When did this come? Did you see him?”

“It was in the door when the girls and I came in for lunch from the garden.”

“Did you call him? What did he want? What did he say?” Blake was standing and felt a sudden urge to pack, to flee.

“No, I didn’t call him,” Angelica said while cleaning up the medical supplies she had taken from the cabinet. “I wanted to speak with you first. It’s too late to call him now.”

Blake read the note again. “Angelica, please call my office ASAP. Sheriff Lonnie Jacobs.”
Why in the world does he want to speak with Angelica? To interrogate her? Thank God I didn’t tell her anything. Don’t start now!

“I wonder what he wants,” Angelica said.

Blake was shocked at how carefree Angelica was, but then he realized that she, of course, had nothing to hide. Nothing to fear. Why
shouldn’t
she be carefree? She walked in to the living room and sat with the girls.

“Wanna watch some TV with us before dinner?” she called to Blake.

“Uh...no, not right now,” Blake said staring at the note. “Tell you what, I’ll get in touch with the sheriff first thing tomorrow and see what he wants. How ’bout that?”

“Sure,” Angelica called from around the wall in the living room. She put her arms around the girls and pulled them close on the sofa, getting lost in one of her happy places. A place with family, simple pleasures, peace and quiet.

Inches behind the wall, Blake sat alone in misery.

Chapter 31

Blake woke up early. He had tossed and turned most of the night, partly due to the pain in his leg from Ozzie’s tusk, but mainly due to Clint’s message and the sheriff’s note. He gave up fighting for sleep and arose at 5:40. He had been sitting on the sofa for over two hours watching CNN. He didn’t know why he was still watching the news. After thirty minutes it seemed to just loop, saying the same thing in different ways, with different people sometimes, but the same thing nevertheless. Supposedly a strong hurricane was going to hit Savannah later that afternoon. A Category 5 hurricane that normally would have been the talk of the country. Maybe it was, for all he knew. But not for him.